


my parson is a wolf on his pulpit of bones

by Hirikka



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Western, BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, Developing Relationship, Horse Girl Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Stregobor Being an Asshole (The Witcher), Western, Wild West Inspired
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-19 03:55:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29744610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hirikka/pseuds/Hirikka
Summary: Geralt is a witcher, wandering the west and doing his best to keep the monsters at bay. He’s hired to capture an outlaw who stole a dangerous magical beast—only the outlaw is a naive musician, and the dangerous beast is a unicorn. Jaskier headed west with big dreams. Big dreams that did not involve being on the run with a rescued unicorn and a surly witcher, but he’s more than willing to go along for the ride.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 21
Kudos: 75





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Geraskier Midwinter Reverse Bang! I had such a fun time writing this fic inspired by puakaba's wonderful art (which will be included in one of the later chapters and linked as soon as it is officially posted)
> 
> Thank you to [Beep](https://duck-is-duck.tumblr.com/) for beta-ing this! You were a huge help and I really appreciate it!
> 
> Fic title is from a Western Folk song called "The Cowboy"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got really into the research for this fic; there's footnotes that link to the glossary for the historical slang that I couldn't resist using.  
> 

“Do you have any work available?” a young man leaning against the counter asks.

The bartender gives him an assessing look. “Don’t look as though you could handle much.”

“I’m stronger than I look, and I’m not afraid of hard work.” His accent is crisp and marks him as a stranger.

“Nothing for you here, kid,” the bartender says. “Best move along.”

The young man starts to protest, but the bartender’s attention has snapped to Geralt as he shoulders in through the door. He stalks up to the bar, ignoring the sullen looks he gets from the townsfolk.

“A whiskey,” he says in lieu of a greeting. The bartender nods and pulls out a glass, pouring the drink. “Any contracts?” Geralt asks as he slides a nickel across the bar.

“Might be,” the bartender says. “Sheriff’ll be back in town in an hour. He’ll have the information.”

Geralt nods. He can sense the growing restlessness of the other patrons, so he throws back the drink and heads for the door before the bartender can ask him to leave—or a fight breaks out.

Behind him, he hears the young man protesting. “I thought you said you didn’t have work!”

“Kid, that man’s a witcher. Any job he gets ain’t one you want.” Geralt doesn’t hear a response from the boy, but he must react in some way because the bartender adds, “You best stay clear of that one; he’d kill you as soon as he’d kill a monster.”

Geralt clenches his teeth and keeps walking. It’s not new, this fear, but it still chafes. He stops at the hitching post where he had left Roach and makes sure she has enough water. “We’re gonna be waiting here for a bit,” he says, scratching her neck. “Be good.” He pulls out the waxed canvas satchel with the trophies from his last hunt and heads over the apothecarist.

* * *

Geralt finishes packing his fresh supplies into his saddlebags before making his way over to the sheriff’s station. There’s a worn out bench, and he sits down, stretching his legs out and tipping his hat down over his eyes. He hears tentative footsteps approaching but doesn’t look up until he hears the creak of the railing as someone leans against it. It's the young man from the bar, barely more than a boy. His blue eyes stand out against cheeks red with a fading sunburn. His clothes are dusty but relatively new; he’s clearly unsalted[1], and Geralt can’t imagine this exchange will go well.

“Are you really a witcher?” He looks excited, bouncing slightly on his feet.

“Hm.” Geralt tips his hat back on his head enough that his golden eyes are visible.

“Oh wow,” the boy breathes. “I didn’t think you were real.” He seems to realize how that sounds because his eyes go even wider. “Sorry, I didn’t mean. It’s just, nobody talks about witchers back home?”

“Did you need something?” Geralt asks before he can continue rambling.

“Oh, no— Well, yes, actually. I was hoping I could ask you a few questions.”

Geralt narrows his eyes. “Why?” He can’t think of any good reason someone would want to learn more about him.

“I’m hoping to make it big”—he hefts the case of some instrument—“and I was thinking that you might have exactly the kind of stories that would make good folk songs.”

“Nobody wants to hear about witchers,” Geralt says.

“I think you’re wrong,” the boy says. “People back north? They love stories about the ‘Wild West,’ things they don’t see in the cities. They’d be fascinated.”

“I’m not some kind of oddity to be gawked at,” Geralt snaps.

“Shit, no.” The boy has the decency to look embarrassed. “I didn’t mean it to sound like that. I just, from what I heard, it seems like people don’t like you much?” It sounds like a question, but the boy doesn’t give him a chance to respond. “Maybe if they knew more, they’d be less… I don’t know, hostile?”

Geralt sighs. “You’d be barkin’ at a knot[2]. People out here don’t like me, don’t like witchers, because we hunt monsters. _Just_ monsters. We don’t get involved in fights between humans. That’s not going to change because of a pretty song.”

The boy places a hand on his hip. “Now, you have no way of knowing that for sure. Not unless you let me try.”

“Listen, kid—”

“Jaskier,” the boy—Jaskier—interrupts. “And I’m not a kid.”

“Jaskier.” Geralt glares at him. “I don’t have any stories to tell you.”

“But—” Jaskier starts to protest, but Geralt cuts him off.

“You should find yourself a way out of this town and back to civilization.”

“I’m not going back east.”

“Then keep heading west,” Geralt says. “This place isn’t safe, and you won’t last long.”

“See, that's a problem as I don’t have any money to keep going west.” Jaskier slumps a little. “I don’t have the money for the coach, and as you said, I wouldn’t make it on my own.”

Geralt sighs. “Then wait until a caravan comes through. They might let you join them.”

“And until then?”

“Stay out of trouble.”

* * *

Jaskier is plucking idly at his banjo, trying to distract himself from his current predicament.

“Are you any good with that thing?”

Jaskier looks up, startled. The man in front of him is well dressed; his clothes look expensive, and he isn’t as dusty and worn down as the rest of the folks Jaskier has seen in this little town. “I am,” Jaskier says.

“Play something,” the man demands.

“Any requests?” Jaskier asks as he sits up straighter and checks to make sure everything is in tune. The stranger shakes his head, so Jaskier shrugs and starts playing one of the folk songs he’s picked up in the last few weeks of his travels.

Once he’s done playing, the man gives a perfunctory clap. “Not bad. You need a job?”

“What kind of job?” Jaskier asks.

“I run a Wild West Show. My name is Stregobor.” The man offers his hand.

Jaskier is well aware that Wild West Shows are not great: They glorify humans and caricaturize other species; they keep dangerous monsters in badly made cages, and the whole thing is just a mess. That being said, he is also stranded in the middle of nowhere without enough money to continue his journey west, and he isn’t about to give up and go home. So.

He stands and shakes Stregobor’s hand. “I go by Dandelion.”

“Our last musician quit a few weeks ago. We need someone who can play between acts, keep folks entertained.”

“I can definitely do that,” Jaskier agrees.

“We’re set up outside of town. Get your stuff and meet us there. We’ll be heading out tomorrow for the next stop on our circuit.”

“Where are you going?” Jaskier asks.

“West coast,” Stregobor says. “We’ll stop and do shows in a couple of the bigger towns on our way, but we make most of our money out in California.”

“Alright,” Jaskier says. This could work perfectly; he can bear the vaudeville long enough to get to California, and then he’ll be that much closer to achieving his dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1Fresh, green, young, inexperienced [return to text]
> 
> 2doing something useless, wasting your time[return to text]


	2. Chapter 2

Jaskier is kept busy for his first few days at Stregobor’s All-Star Wild West. He meets most of the other people working there, and they all seem _fine._ Not exactly what he had been hoping for when he left home, but he thinks it ought to be manageable. They were already packed up and ready to hit the road when Jaskier arrived, so he doesn’t get a look at the show’s ‘exhibits’ until they set up outside of Hope’s Run—a place that Jaskier supposes could be called a city if you were feeling particularly charitable.

They had finished setting up late in the afternoon; Stregobor had gone into town to drum up interest in the show, and the rest of them had a few hours off—which most of his coworkers seemed to be using to get as drunk as possible. As the newest member of the troop, Jaskier had been instructed to stay sober and to keep watch.

He wanders out past the little stage and seating area, towards the row of cages. Stregobor had mentioned that the show owned monsters but hadn’t said what, and Jaskier is desperately curious. He passes the corral with the horses and the long-horn cattle that are used in the rodeo portion of the show, and then he reaches the first cage. It's small—too small. Jaskier feels a flash of pity for the poor creature inside. It looks like a large cat, but as he steps closer it rattles its fur—made of odd, sharp-looking spikes. Its tail branches off into several wicked thorns. Jaskier takes a hasty step back as the creature snarls.

He moves on, past animals both familiar and strange. The final pen is set slightly away from the others and is more elaborately designed. Jaskier walks closer and sees—a horse? Frowning, Jaskier steps closer to the bars, trying to figure out why this horse is held here rather than in the paddock with the rest.

“Hey there,” Jaskier says, clucking at the horse, hoping to coax it closer to the front of the cage so he can see it more clearly. The horse shifts, stomping a hoof on the ground, and then it does move forward out of the shadows. “Oh my god,” Jaskier breathes as he takes in the creature standing before him. The _unicorn_ standing before him.

He watches, wide-eyed, as the unicorn takes a step closer to the bars. She’s a buckskin, most of her coat a burnished gold; her mane and tail and _horn_ are all ebony. As far as Jaskier knew unicorns were extinct—or had never existed at all, depending on who you asked. He can't believe that Stregobor is _actually_ keeping one in a cage.

The unicorn regards him with dark, intelligent eyes. Jaskier curses. He closes his eyes to think. He can hear the voices of the other employees—loud and cheerful as they continue to drink—so they are probably distracted enough not to be paying much attention. Stregobor had said he wouldn’t be back until the morning, so Jaskier might have time to pull this off and get far enough away that he won’t _immediately_ be caught.

“Fuck,” he growls again before turning to lope back to his shared tent. He grabs his bag, thanking his own laziness for the fact that it’s still fully packed. He shoulders his banjo and then trots back to the row of cages.

Back in front of the unicorn, he pulls out his lockpicks and gets to work. It’s a surprisingly easy thing to pick, which makes him irrationally angry; he should be thankful that his job is easy, but it means that nobody else has bothered to try this before. It barely takes him a minute before the lock clicks, and Jaskier eases the door open.

“Alright, you’re free to go,” Jaskier says, stepping out of the way.

The unicorn snorts, looking between him and the door warily. After a moment, she steps forward and out of the cage. Once she’s out, she stops and stands perfectly still, watching Jaskier.

“Get going,” he hisses. “I don’t know how long it’ll be before they notice you’re gone. You’ll want to put as much distance between yourself and them before that happens.”

“Thank you,” the unicorn says.

“You can talk?” Jaskier asks, taken aback.

“To those willing to listen.” She shakes her mane and looks across the camp. “Open the paddock. I’ll make sure the horses run—that oughta  put a spoke in the wheel[1] of anyone who comes after us.”

Jaskier, still somewhat stunned, follows her directions. As she moves into the paddock to convince the horses to leave, Jaskier turns back to the cages. “I sure hope none of you are hungry,” he mutters before setting to work releasing the rest of them. Only a few of the other creatures have locks on their cages; clearly the threat of theft is not a concern. By the time he finishes, the horses are gone, scattered into the dunes outside of the camp.

The unicorn jogs to his side. “You set the rest free. Why?”

Jaskier shrugs. “It didn’t seem right to leave them here. They don’t deserve to be kept like this.”

“No,” the unicorn agrees. “You aren’t like the rest of them.”

“Thanks?” Jaskier says, uncertain of what he should do now.

“We should go.”

“Yeah,” Jaskier says. “Wait, _we_?”

“You don’t plan to stay here, do you?”

“Well, no.”

“Then we can go together,” the unicorn decides. “You saved me—I won’t leave you to be punished for it. That would be poor thanks.”

“Ah, well. Thank you,” Jaskier says. This feels beyond surreal, but he certainly won’t argue with the unicorn—because A. she’s a _unicorn,_ and B. he doesn’t really feel that confident about his ability to survive on the run by himself.

“Grab a saddle andhackamore[2],” the unicorn instructs.

“What?” Jaskier hesitates.

The unicorn snorts. “You know how to ride, right?”

“Yes, but we just set all the horses loose,” Jaskier points out. They probably wouldn’t go far, but he didn’t particularly want to carry a saddle while he tried to track one down.

The unicorn somehow manages a judgemental look. “I’m perfectly capable of carrying you.”

“Oh,” Jaskier says. “I didn’t think you would…” He trails off, not sure exactly what he is trying to convey. It feels sacrilegious, almost, to think about riding a creature like the unicorn, but if she’s offering, he doesn’t want to offend her by saying no.

* * *

“Do you have a name?” Jaskier asks. He’s dismounted, unused to riding for hours at a time, and he watches the unicorn as they walk.

“Not one you would be able to pronounce.”

“Well, I’d like to have something to call you.”

“Pick something then.”

“Aren’t you helpful,” Jaskier scoffs. “What about Dolya?”

“What does it mean?”

“Dolya is the goddess of good fortune,” Jaskier says. “It feels like we’re owed some.”

She tosses her mane. “That will do.”

“Alright.” Jaskier surveys the empty land around them. They’ve been traveling for hours now, the camp long lost from view. “Now what?”

Dolya considers for a moment. “What were you planning to do before you freed me?”

Jaskier shrugs. “Work at the show until I had enough money to keep heading west, I suppose.”

“You don’t sound certain.”

Jaskier sighs. “Well, my original plan was to try my luck in California. See if I could make it as a musician.”

“And now?”

“Now I’m not sure. I like it here. But I don’t want to work at another show like that, not if they’re all that awful, and I don’t have any other plans.”

“You don’t need to decide right away,” Dolya offers. “For now, we ought to get farther from Stregobor, and then we can rest.”

Jaskier looks up at her in surprise. “You’re staying with me?”

Dolya bumps her nose into his shoulder. “You shouldn’t be alone out here. Don’t know that I should be either. Perhaps we’ll have better luck together.”

Jaskier smiles at her. “Well, I certainly won’t complain about having a companion.”

“Of course not; you should be honored by my presence,” Dolya says without a hint of irony. “Now come, we might be able to reach an oasis in another hour if you don’t dawdle.”

Jaskier snorts. “Lead on, my lady.”

* * *

“Oh my _god_ —did you just eat a lizard?”

Dolya lifts her head. “Yes.”

“Are you a _carnivore_?” Jaskier’s voice is strangled.

“No, but I can eat meat if I want to,” Dolya corrects. “Horses can as well.”

“What.”

“Is that really so strange?”

“Yes!”

“You are bothered by such odd things.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1to foul up or sabotage something[return to text]
> 
> 2A hackamore is a type of animal headgear which does not have a bit. The tradition of hackamore use in the United States came from the Spanish Californians, who were well respected for their horse-handling abilities. From this tradition, the American cowboy adopted the hackamore.[return to text]


	3. Chapter 3

Geralt _hates_ the Wild West Shows. They are foolish, dangerous, and cross-grained[1] . They never know shit about the monsters they capture to put on display, and more often than not, they are shut down after a creature escapes to wreak havoc on the visitors. Still, money is running short, and if this one released a monster, it does need to be taken care of. “What happened?”

“We hired on a new musician about a week ago. Yesterday he was on night watch, and when we woke in the morning, he was gone and so was our... kelpie.” The proprietor, Stregobor, is red-faced and nervous. He hesitates for the barest second over the name of the creature, and Geralt can guess why. Whatever the musician set free was not a kelpie; they couldn’t survive in this climate, so it must be something else. He wonders why the man would lie, wonders exactly what has been set loose. “We want you to track them down, and return the beast to us.”

“I’m not in the business of _catching_ monsters,” Geralt says.

Stregobor gives a dark smile. “You’d make a hell of a lot more money if you were.”

“Maybe,” Geralt says. “And yet, that’s not what I do.”

“Fine.” Stegobor’s expression is sour. “Then kill the beast, but  by hook or crook[2], I want its body returned to me. All of it.”

Geralt considers this and then gives a nod. “It’ll cost more if I need to bring the whole thing back.”

“Yes, fine,” Stregobor says.

“And the musician?”

“I don’t care. Leave him in the desert to die, or bed him down[3] yourself. Whatever you want.”

Geralt doesn’t bother to point out that he has no interest in killing a human or in leaving one to die. It hardly matters. “I’ll need two hundred up front,” Geralt says instead. Stregobor looks like he is about to protest, so Geralt leans forward. “I’m giving you a fair shake[4]. I’ll need to buy a mule to carry the body back.”

Stregobor huffs. “Fine.” He pulls out a wallet and passes over the money.

Geralt takes it and stands. “I’ll be by your camp in an hour so you can show me which way they went.”

“Pleasure doing business with you,” Stregobor says, even though he sounds angry. Geralt doesn’t bother to reply, just turns and leaves the bar.

* * *

As the sun begins to rise, they stop to rest near a small pond that Dolya led them to.

“What happens if we come across other people?” Jaskier asks. They’ve been traveling away from Hope’s Run, into the untamed wilderness, but there might be other travelers—and eventually they will need to find another town to get supplies.

Dolya settles in the grass near him. “People see what they expect to see.”

“What does that mean?” Jaskier asks.

“They’ll see you, and they’ll see your horse. Most humans are too lunk-headed to _notice_ things. There’s a sort of...fugue that stops them from seeing things they don’t believe in.”

“I saw you.”

“Some people are more _aware_ than others,” Dolya says. “It's rare, though; we can deal with that if it happens.”

Jaskier sighs and relaxes back against one of the scraggly trees, pulling out his banjo and starting to play. “Well, I suppose if you aren’t worried.”

* * *

“This is the pen where the monster was kept,” Stregobor says.

Geralt can still make out the trail: hooves and footprints leading away from the little paddock. “What color is the ‘kelpie’? Anything distinctive about it?”

If Stregobor notices the skepticism in Geralt’s tone when he says _kelpie_ , he doesn’t react. “It’s a buckskin. The musician—Dandelion, he called himself—plays a banjo and favors brightly-colored clothing.”

“Alright.” Geralt swings up onto Roach’s back, adjusting the lead line for the mule.

“Good hunting,” Stregobor says.

“Hm.” Geralt clicks to Roach and sets her off along the trail. It doesn’t take long for the boot-prints to disappear; Dandelion must have mounted the creature. If it is a kelpie or something of that ilk, the musician is probably already dead.

* * *

Geralt hears music drifting over the plains. He pulls Roach to a stop to listen, trying to figure out if it is a camp or homestead. He’s hoping whoever it is doesn’t attract the attention of whatever creatures escaped from Stregobor.

A voice joins the instrument, sweet and mournful:

_“_ _My books are the brooks_

_my sermons the stones_

_my parson is a wolf on his pulpit of bones.”_

Roach snorts, ears flicking between Geralt and the music.

“Right, we should keep going,” Geralt mutters. He nudges Roach to a jog, hoping to find some sign of his quarry soon. The trail he is following brings him closer to the music, and Geralt reassesses, trying to conjure to mind all the creatures that are capable of human speech, of song, and of animal transformation. The voice is alluring; it could be a hunting method, if this is the creature.

He reaches a hill. It sounds like the singer is in the valley on the other side, so Geralt dismounts, leaving Roach behind and making sure he has the potions he needs.

“ _Cupid is always a friend to the bold_ ,” the voice sings.

Geralt creeps forward, looking down into the small valley. There’s a little pond, a few scraggly trees. The singer leaning against one tree is humanoid. There’s something that _looks_ like a horse cropping at the grass a few feet away.

“ _And the best of his arrows are pointed with gold._ ”

Geralt moves closer as the song continues. Neither seem to notice him. He can feel his medallion tremble as he approaches; the horse is definitely _not_ what it appears to be, and the singer— Geralt freezes because he _recognizes_ the singer.

The not-a-horse suddenly lifts its head, nostrils flaring. It swings around and looks directly at Geralt. He curses, his cover blown, and stands up. The horse paws at the ground, and _Jaskier_ puts his banjo to the side, standing up and brushing dust from his pants.

“Oh, Geralt,” Jaskier says. “Fancy seeing you… here.”

“Jaskier?” Geralt frowns at the man. He really hadn’t expected to see him again, let alone in the middle of nowhere with some kind of monster.

The creature at his side tosses its mane and snorts but doesn’t move far from Jaskier’s side.

“This isn’t what I had in mind when I told you to stay out of trouble,” Geralt says.

“Ah, well.” Jaskier looks sheepish. “Wait. What are you doing here?” It looks like he already has an idea of why, from the way he’s gone tense and nervous.

“I’m on a hunt. And _you_ are over head and ears[5] here,” Geralt says. He watches the way Jaskier’s gaze flicks to the not-a-horse before returning his focus to Geralt.

“What are you hunting?” He _almost_ manages to sound casual. “I haven’t seen anything particularly odd around here.”

“Jaskier.” Geralt takes a step closer, lets his voice drop to something more menacing. He doesn’t think Jaskier is a threat, but he’d rather scare him than have him interfere. “I think you know what I’m hunting.”

Instead of backing down, Jaskier takes a step forward, putting himself between the monster and Geralt. He puts his hands on his hips and tilts his head to the side. “Do _you_ know what you are hunting?”

Geralt opens his mouth to respond but then snaps it shut. He narrows his eyes and looks at the not-a-horse again. He knows Stregobor lied to him, so what _is_ the creature?

“What did Stregobor tell you?” Jaskier asks.

“Kelpie,” Geralt says. “Knew he was lying about _that_ , but…” He trails off. Saying that a job is a job doesn’t seem right. He feels wrong-footed, as if he’s missing something obvious.

The creature snorts, and Jaskier frowns at her. “No, I don’t think that will be necessary.” He looks back at Geralt, something assessing in his gaze that makes Geralt feel strangely exposed. “Stregobor _was_ lying to you. I’m just”—he chews on his bottom lip—“not quite sure where we go from here.”

“What do you mean?” Geralt asks.

“Well, it seems pretty obvious that you know I was involved; I’m not going to insult your intelligence by trying to pretend otherwise. And I’m guessing you must have some kind of witchery way to tell that Dolya is not a normal horse. So what now?”

“Dolya?” Geralt asks. “What is she?”

Jaskier looks to Dolya. The creature tosses her mane. Jaskier makes a face and then turns back to Geralt. “Shouldn’t you be able to tell?”

Geralt resists the urge to roll his eyes. “Can I take a closer look? Most creatures that can glamour themselves to look like horses transform at some point; I can’t tell just from this form.”

Jaskier shrugs. “Keep the swords sheathed, and we should be fine.”

Geralt hums and takes a few steps closer. He tries to catch a scent from the horse but doesn’t get anything that would give away what she is—none of the marshy smell that kelpies have. Her scent is _green,_ like an old forest: pine and moss, earthy and rich. He examines the creature, trying to see anything out of place, and cannot identify anything that matches up with any monster he’s faced before. The not-a-horse takes a step closer to him. He tenses, prepared for an attack, but the creature just huffs at him, taking in his scent. He feels the warmth of her breath, and it reminds him of Roach, something safe and almost familiar about it.

Without really considering what he’s doing, Geralt pulls his glove off and reaches out a hand towards the creature. He pauses, and it is as if the entire world is holding its breath around them. He’s not sure what he’s waiting for, but it feels vital. After a moment, the creature presses her velvet-soft nose against his palm with a little sigh. The air around her shimmers, like a heat mirage, and then he sees the horn.

“ _Oh_ ,” Geralt breathes. He takes a step back, looking between Jaskier and the unicorn.

“You see why I had to let her go,” Jaskier says.

“I do,” Geralt agrees. “Shit. I didn’t think there were any left.”

The unicorn tosses her mane. “There aren’t many of us. As far as I know, at least.”

Geralt takes another few steps back before sinking down onto a nearby rock. He’s shaken and unsure. He knows why Stregobor was willing to pay so much—and he knows that the man isn’t likely to give up easily.

“Geralt?” Jaskier sounds concerned.

“I just need a minute,” Geralt grunts.

Jaskier nods. “Is your horse back the way you came?”

“Hm.”

“Just, wait here,” Jaskier instructs. “I’ll get her so you can have a minute.”

Geralt gives a nod and puts his head in his hands. He knows he could leave; it isn’t his responsibility to make sure the unicorn is safe, but even as the thought crosses his mind, he rejects it. He wouldn’t be able to forgive himself if she was recaptured, not to mention whatever harm would come to Jaskier.

“Where did you come from?” Geralt asks.

The unicorn paws at the ground. “I was born here. My mother was born across the sea. She was brought here years ago.”

“Shit,” Geralt hisses. He had hoped there was some territory he could return her to, but if she came from across the ocean, that makes things significantly more difficult. He lets silence fall again. Watches as the unicorn relaxes and goes back to her snack.

A few minutes later, Jaskier returns, leading the mule. Roach is following as well, Jaskier keeping a careful distance between them. Roach perks up when she spots Geralt, trotting over to nudge his shoulder before moving to the little pond to get a drink.

“What are you thinking?” Jaskier asks.

Geralt hums, considering. “Did _you_ have a plan?”

“Nope,” Jaskier admits with a sheepish smile. “To be fair, I thought Dolya would just leave once we got out.”

“She told me she was born in captivity,” Geralt says.

“Ah, well. That does complicate things, doesn’t it?” Jaskier says.

“It does,” Geralt agrees. He glances around them. “We should probably move on; don’t know if Stregobor will try to send anyone else after you. We can decide what to do later.”

“Works for me.” Jaskier steps over to the tack laying on the ground. “Dolya?”

“Go ahead.”

Jaskier scratches her neck and then sets about tacking her, moving with practiced ease. Geralt makes sure Roach and the mule have enough water before securing the mule’s lead and mounting. Jaskier mounts as well and looks to Geralt.

“I’m not actually sure where to go now.”

“This way,” Geralt says. “There’s a town another day or so from here; we’ll be able to stop there to get supplies if you need them.”

“Alright,” Jaskier agrees easily.

Geralt clucks to Roach, setting out at an easy pace. Dolya matches Roach’s speed, and they ride out through the prairie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Jaskier sings is the same folk song that I took the fic title from: "The Cowboy"
> 
> * * *
> 
> 1perverse, troublesome[return to text]  
>  2to do any way possible[return to text]  
>  3kill a man[return to text]  
>  4a fair trade[return to text]  
>  5completely overwhelmed[return to text]


	4. Chapter 4

Geralt stops them when the sun starts to dip below the horizon. “We’ll camp here for the night.” It’s a flat area, which is not ideal, but Geralt trusts that his senses will be enough to warn him if they’re being followed. He’s hoping that he’ll have at least another day before Stregobor begins to suspect that he’s gone rogue, but he knows it is better to be overly cautious.

They don’t bother with a fire; the night is warm enough that they’ll be alright without it, even though Jaskier didn’t bring a bedroll or much of anything when he fled. Once they’ve eaten, Jaskier takes out his banjo and starts to play. Geralt moves to the edge of the camp, surveying the land around them. Dolya is close by, so he takes the opportunity while Jaskier is distracted to suggest his plan: “There’s a place… It’s sort of the home base for witchers. Hard for humans to get there, so you’d likely be safe there.”

“Perhaps,” Dolya says. “I suppose I could visit at least, see what it’s like.”

Geralt nods. “I can show you. There are a few towns on the way, so we can make sure Jaskier is set up with another job.”

“No.” Dolya stomps her hoof. “Jaskier is coming.”

Geralt blinks at her. He hadn’t expected her to be so adamant about it. “Our keep is meant to be secret,” he tries. The unicorn snorts derisively. “Fine. He can travel with us for a while, but he’ll have to stay in the last town before the keep.”

Dolya tosses her mane. “We’ll see.”

“Am I allowed to participate in this conversation?” Jaskier asks. Geralt grimaces; he hadn’t realized the younger man was listening. “Dolya, darling, I want you to be safe. If that means we must part ways, I’ll be able to manage on my own.”

The unicorn presses her nose into Jaskier’s shoulder. “I want you with me.” She seems young all of a sudden, without the easy confidence she’s shown up until that point. Geralt wonders how old she actually is. He doesn’t know much about unicorns; they’ve always been rare, and he’s not sure how they mature. He would have guessed her to be five or six, an adult in terms of horses, but that could be different in unicorns.

Jaskier presses a kiss to her forehead. “Then I’ll stay with you until we reach the last town before the witchers' keep. We’ll figure out the rest once we get there.” He glances to Geralt, who nods in agreement.

“We should get some rest,” Geralt says.

* * *

Jaskier is the first to wake—still not used to sleeping outside. He drags himself up, keeping the saddle blanket wrapped around his shoulders as the sun hasn't yet burnt away the chill. He rifles through the saddlebags he’d stolen the day before until he finds a mess kit with a few pieces of jerky and not much else. He makes a mental note to pick up some trail rations and coffee if they make it to a town. He feels eyes on him and looks over to see that Geralt is awake as well. Jaskier wordlessly offers a piece of jerky to him. Geralt takes it with a nod of thanks, and they eat in silence for a few minutes before Geralt rises.

“We outta cut a path[1],” he says. “It’s a few hours to Elkmont.”

“Alright,” Jaskier agrees. He stretches and shakes out the blanket. Dolya ambles over to his side, letting him tack her up.

“Is Elkmont a big town?” Jaskier asks once they’ve started riding.

“Not really. But they’ve got a general store, and you need supplies.”

“Right. And then how far is it to, well, you never actually said what it was called—your home?”

Geralt glances over to him. “Depends on how fast we travel. A week or two.”

Jaskier tries to figure out where exactly that will place them, but he’s not sure enough of the borders to really guess. He considers pressing Geralt for more information, but he’s too aware of how unwelcome his presence is, so he stays quiet.

They haven’t been riding for long when they hear a sharp whistle. Geralt turns back, narrowing his eyes as he scans the horizon.

“Shit.”

“What is it?” Jaskier asks. He can’t make out anything at first.

“A marshal,” Geralt says.

Jaskier follows his gaze, and now he can see a rider heading in their direction, although they are still too far for him to pick out any details. “Is that bad?”

“Not for you, unless Stregobor has started spreading word of your theft. They aren’t fans of witchers, though.”

“Why not?” Jaskier asks.

“Witchers don’t work for the government,” Geralt says. He pulls Roach to a halt and Jaskier follows suit. “And we’re neutral in the affairs of men. Marshals don’t like that.”

“What should we do?” Jaskier asks. Dolya dances nervously beneath him.

“We’ll just wait. He’s likely just going to posture,” Geralt says. “If things start to go south, you two burn the breeze[2]. I’ll catch up.”

“Alright,” Jaskier agrees, adjusting his seat and patting Dolya’s neck.

It takes another ten minutes for the marshal to reach them, at which point Jaskier is more than a little antsy. He stops his horse a few feet from them, giving them an assessing look.

“Witcher,” the marshal says. “You travelin’ with him of your own free will?” He directs the question to Jaskier, but he keeps his attention on Geralt.

“I am,” Jaskier says.

“You sure that’s wise?” the marshal asks. “They aren’t meant for company.”

Jaskier tilts his head, as if he’s considering the man’s words. “Seems like perfectly good company to me.” He flashes a cold smile. “I appreciate the concern, though.”

The marshal snorts. “Where are you heading?”

“You have a job for me?” Geralt asks.

“No.”

“Then it’s nothing to nobody[3]where we’re heading.” Geralt waits for a second before he turns Roach and urges her into a jog.

“Pleasure meeting you, Marshal,” Jaskier chirps before clucking to Dolya and letting her lope after Roach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1leave/go[return to text]  
> 2ride at full speed[return to text]  
> 3Nobody’s business.[return to text]


	5. Chapter 5

Elkmont really isn’t much of a town. Jaskier dismounts at the general store and loops the reins over the hitching post. “I’m not gonna tie you, just in case. But please don’t wander off.”

“Fine,” Dolya snorts. “Don’t take too long.”

“I’ll do my best,” Jaskier agrees. He heads inside, Geralt following close behind.

“Ah, witcher!” The man behind the counter looks pleased. “I was hoping one of you might happen by—I’ve got a job.”

“Hm.” Geralt moves over to the counter. “What’s the job?”

The shopkeep, a man called Arnold Mayhew, doesn’t have much information about the creature, just that it has a chilling scream and a few folks have gone missing. Jaskier half listens as he wanders around the shop, plucking up a canteen and a few cans of beans. He tunes them out as they start discussing payment for the job and the mule that Geralt wants to sell, distracted by a red leather jacket with white fringe and flowers embroidered over the shoulders. It’s pretty, and it looks like it would be significantly warmer than his current clothes, which is good because the winds are starting to turn biting. He dips into his reserve of money—he’s been trying to save his funds to get himself started when he reaches California, but he needs to survive long enough to get there.

Geralt’s left the building by the time he’s done shopping and is leaning against the railing outside.

“Are you taking that contract?” Jaskier asks when he comes outside.

Geralt nods.

“Can I come?” Jaskier asks, bouncing a little on his feet.

Geralt frowns at him. “Why?”

“I want to see what you do,” Jaskier says. “And I _maybe_ still want to write songs about witchers.”

“I still don’t think anybody would want to hear them.”

“Please, Geralt?”

Geralt huffs. “Alright. But you’ll stay well back, and if I tell you to go—you go.”

“Absolutely.” Jaskier follows Geralt over to where Dolya and Roach are waiting. “So, where’s the monster?”

Geralt points to the plateau outside of the town. “It’s been coming down from the hills in the evenings, targeting the miners.” He mounts Roach and leads the way out of town.

It’s late in the afternoon by the time they reach the mining encampment. They pass the men returning from work on their way. They seem suspicious of Geralt but point out where they’d found the remains of the monster’s previous victims. Geralt stops Roach on a slight rise; he dismounts,loops the reins over her neck, and pulls out a few potion bottles from the case in his saddlebag.

“What now?” Jaskier asks.

“You wait here with Dolya and Roach,” Geralt says. “It isn’t likely to try attacking when there are three targets. It should come after me.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

“Then you take Dolya and get away. Follow Roach. She’s used to this; she’ll know where to go.”

“What if you need help?” Dolya asks.

Geralt fixes them both with a look. “Do not try to get involved. Either of you.”

Dolya paws at the ground sullenly.

“We won’t,” Jaskier says when Geralt keeps watching them.

“Hm.” The witcher turns away and scans the land around them. After a moment, he drinks one of the potions and walks down from the rise into the low brush of the land around the plateau.

For several long minutes, nothing happens. Then a horrible screeching cry splits the quiet of the night. Jaskier can feel Dolya tensing below him, and he can’t blame her. The sound is like nothing he’s ever heard before, a terrible noise that makes him want to run and hide.

“It’s okay,” Jaskier breathes, hoping he’s right.

The clouds part, and the moon illuminates the fight that is happening a hundred yards from them. Geralt is a blur of motion, sword reflecting the moonlight as he darts around the creature. It’s huge and bulky, close to the size of a bear but faster. Jaskier can see the large horns curving over the creature's head as it snarls and swipes at Geralt. One of the paws connects, and the witcher stumbles backwards, losing his footing as the creature presses closer. Before the monster can hit again, Geralt is back on his feet—a blast of fire pushes the monster back and puts it on the defensive.

After that, it is too dark to make out the details with how fast everything is. It seems to last for hours as Jaskier waits in the dark. The movement stops with one final cry from the monster.

“Did he kill it?” Dolya asks.

“Should we go check?” Jaskier doesn’t like this waiting; he feels like there should be something he can do.

Before they can decide, a whistle comes from the darkness. Roach tosses her mane and lopes in the direction of the whistle.

“I think that means it’s safe,” Jaskier says, and Dolya races after Roach.

“Are you alright?” Jaskier asks breathlessly as he dismounts. He still can’t see much. The monster is a dark shape a little way off, and Geralt is leaning heavily against Roach’s side. When Geralt doesn’t answer right away, Jaskier digs out the small lantern he had purchased and lights it. Geralt hisses and shuts his eyes at the light.

“Sorry,” Jaskier mutters. Then he freezes. Geralt’s veins stand out black against his skin that has gone even paler than normal. “Geralt, was it venomous?”

“No,” Geralt grunts. He opens his eyes a crack to look at Jaskier; they are black as pitch. “Potion.”

Jaskier slumps in relief. “Oh, that’s alright then. It’s meant to do that?” Geralt nods. “Okay, okay. Good. Are you hurt?”

“Shoulder’s dislocated,” Geralt says. “Just bruising otherwise.”

“Do you want me to help?” Jaskier asks.

“I’m fine,” Geralt says. He grips his wrist with his good arm and _pops_ the joint back into place. He stands for a moment, breathing deeply, and then he turns his attention to the monster. Jaskier follows him so he can take a closer look. Its head is similar to that of a large cat, but its fur is black and the curved horns make it clear that this is not an ordinary animal.

“What is it?” Jaskier asks.

“Ozark Howler.” Geralt pulls out a knife and sets about removing the horns. “They’ve been ranging further west as more people move into their native territories.” He puts the horns into his saddle bags and then hoists the howler up onto Roach’s back. The mare snorts but remains still as Geralt secures the creature and takes her reins.

“Do you want to ride?” Jaskier offers when it becomes clear that Geralt is planning to walk back to town. “Dolya, do you mind?”

“I don’t mind.”

“I’m fine,” Geralt grumbles.

“You just fought a monster, Geralt. I can handle walking for a bit,” Jaskier says.

“Hm. Alright. Thank you.” Geralt loops Roach’s reins back around her neck. “She’ll follow on her own. If you try to lead her, she’s likely to bite,” Geralt adds when Jaskier takes a step towards the mare.

“Got it.”

Geralt nods and then mounts Dolya, staying still as she adjusts to his weight. Once she is settled, Geralt murmurs to her and they set off back towards the distant lights of the town.

* * *

“Seems like you’ve gotten yourself into a spot of trouble.”

Jaskier turns to see the marshal they’d run into a few weeks ago leaning on the bar next to him.

“What do you mean?” Jaskier asks warily.

The marshal places a piece of paper on the bartop between them. It’s a wanted poster, a rough sketch of Jaskier—he wonders if he can spin that, try to convince the marshal he’s not the right man—and an offer of a reward for the capture of him and his stolen horse.

Jaskier gives the paper a long look. “I’m afraid you must be mistaken, Marshal…?”

“Marx. Valdo Marx.”

“Marshal Marx. That’s not me. I’ve never stolen anything.”

“Odd,” Marx says, “seeing as I also heard that there was a witcher hired to bring in the thief, and the only one seen around for miles is the very one I saw you with.”

“Well, there you go,” Jaskier says. “If I was this”—he glances down at the paper—“Dandelion, why would the witcher be traveling _with_ me? I imagine if the witcher had found his quarry, Dandelion would no longer be a free man.”

“If you think that mutant will protect you, you are a fool,” Marx says. “I, on the other hand, would be willing to help you. For the right price.”

“I appreciate your willingness, but I don’t need help. Like I said, I’m not the man you are looking for.”

“Even if I believe _that_ —even if I let you go—that witcher’ll turn on you, mark my words.”

“Well, thank you for the warning. I’ll keep that in mind,” Jaskier says.

He hears the door to the bar swing open and then: “Jaskier.”

Jaskier turns to see Geralt standing in the doorway. He tries not to slump in relief. Instead, he turns to Marx, keeping his expression blankly pleasant. “I’d best get moving—unless you have more questions?”

Marx tears his gaze away from the witcher and looks back to Jaskier. “You can go. I’m sure we’ll see each other again soon.”

“It’s been a pleasure,” Jaskier lies. He taps the wanted poster. “I hope you manage to find your man.” He turns and makes his way to the door where Geralt is still waiting, expression grim.

Neither of them speak until they’ve put Little Roost behind them. “Stregobor put out a reward for my capture,” Jaskier says.

“Hm.” Geralt glances behind them. “Figured he would. Marshal didn’t take you in?”

Jaskier shrugs. “He might’ve, if you hadn’t arrived when you did. But I think he was hoping I might pay him off or something. And he really doesn’t like you.”

“Feeling’s mutual,” Geralt grumbles. “We’ll have to be more cautious; don’t think he’d try to take me on by himself, but if he can get some help…”

“Right,” Jaskier agrees.

Dolya tosses her mane. “How much influence does Stregobor have?”

“Hm.” Geralt considers. “He doesn’t have a great reputation, but Jaskier’s an outsider. If it comes down to your word against his…” he trails off, meaning clear enough. “And he has enough money that he can hire people to hunt you and offer a reward good enough that a marshal would get involved.”

“Not ideal,” Jaskier says, tapping his fingers on his leg.

“No,” Geralt agrees.

“Maybe I just need to become someone new.”

“New?” Geralt sounds dubious.

“Sure, I came west to reinvent myself.” Jaskier waves a hand. Dolya snorts as his weight shifts. “Sorry, dearheart. I’m guessing a new name and a new reputation will help. If they are looking for Dandelion the fugitive, they might look right past Jaskier the singer!”

“Weren't you working as a singer for Stregobor?” Geralt asks.

“Well, yes,” Jaskier admits. “But it didn’t mention that on the wanted poster, and it's not as though there’s only one singer in the world.”

Geralt considers this for a few minutes. “It’s not… a terrible idea. Most people aren’t stupid enough to draw that kind of attention to themselves when they are being hunted.”

“Rude!” Jaskier gasps.

Geralt graces him with a small smile, and Jaskier feels incredibly smug.

“Next time we pass a town I’ll see if I can play for a bit,” Jaskier says. “See how it goes.”

“Alright.”

Jaskier grins and then digs into his saddlebag for his notebook—he has a song to work on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone who is interested [this](https://bogelbear.tumblr.com/post/645497255832551424/bestairum-vocabulum-or-a-cryptozoological) is my reference for the Ozark Howler (shout-out to my dad who did the art)
> 
> Come say hi on [tumblr](https://hirikka.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
